


a pinch of magic

by halfdesertedstreets



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Genderfluid Character, Justin "Ransom" Oluransi is a Delicate Coral Reef, Kit Purrson is a Magical Familiar, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, Trans Male Character, Witch!Jack Zimmermann, Witch!Kent, Witch!Ransom, i have done my duty, if the only thing i'm known for in this fandom is my obsession with magic AUs, look if i don't have 'mutual pining' as a tag, someone has to call an ambulance for me, they're all witches basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 23:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19050718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdesertedstreets/pseuds/halfdesertedstreets
Summary: Jack pauses at his doorstop, key in hand, nonplussed as he takes in the small army of people hauling boxes and furniture into the once-empty house.“Swoops, if you drop that box of plates, I’m fucking murdering you!” a voice calls out in cheerful warning. “That dining set has been in Ransom’s family for over twenty years!”“What the hell, bro, plates donotlast that fucking long!” a tall figure balancing a precarious stack of boxes yells back.--Or, the one where Jack is a solitary spellbook shopkeeper, whose quiet life gains a lot more color when Kent Parson and Justin Oluransi, warlock partners deeply in love, move into the house across the street.





	a pinch of magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [palateens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/gifts).



> Written for the inaugural [OMGCP Reversebang 2019](https://omgcpreversebang.tumblr.com/). All the kudos to the wonderful [palateens](http://abominableobriens.tumblr.com) for making the [glorious piece](https://abominableobriens.tumblr.com/post/185294440557/a-pinch-of-magic-fic-by-halfdesertedstreets-jack) that inspired this story. <3
> 
> Thank you to all the other participants in the Reversebang, especially the artists, and _especially_ the mods. Artists, you all made such inspiring pieces, I am _still_ in awe. Mods, you guys did a great job running this whole thing, and this awesome event wouldn't have been possible without you. Shout-out also to the Parse Posse for being my sounding boards and sprinting buddies, especially Raven for her last-minute beta. Finally, thank you, dear reader, for taking a chance on this story of mine. I hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters are not mine; all credit goes to [ngoziu](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com).

* * *

 

**_a pinch of magic_ **

 

* * *

 

The house across the street has been vacated for so long that Jack would suspect that it’s haunted, if not for the fact that he  _knows_  Mrs. Heller moved peacefully on a few weeks after her eldest granddaughter came and took the orchids home with her. 

Sometime when he wasn’t looking, though, the ‘For Sale’ sign has not only vanished, but also been replaced by a motley assortment of pick-up trucks and moving vans. 

Jack pauses at his doorstop, key in hand, nonplussed as he takes in the small army of people hauling boxes and furniture into the once-empty house. 

“Swoops, if you drop that box of plates, I’m fucking murdering you!” a voice calls out in cheerful warning. “That dining set has been in Ransom’s family for over twenty years!” 

“What the hell, bro, plates do  _not_ last that fucking long!” a tall figure balancing a precarious stack of boxes yells back. 

The original speaker lets out a loud bark of laughter, and suddenly Jack spies him standing on the front porch, hands on his hips as he helps direct the flow of traffic around him and into the house. He’s got a riot of blond curls and an easy grin on his face, and Jack feels torn between the need to look away and the need to stare harder. As Jack’s debating over which course of action to take, the decision is taken out of his hands when a dark-skinned man lopes up the steps, duffel bags slung over each broad shoulder, and drops a quick kiss on the corner of that grinning mouth. Jack can’t help but stare, then.

“Be nice, babe,” the man admonishes as he makes his way into the house, Jack’s extra-sharp hearing effortlessly catching his smooth baritone. 

“Always am!” his—boyfriend? partner? husband?—calls back.   

The only answer is the combined snorting laugh of the crowd around them both. 

Jack finally pulls his eyes away from the vignette and turns back to his doorknob.  

Something makes him look back, though, and when he does, there’s a pair of sharp, grass-green eyes looking right back at him, the blond stranger’s head tilted to the side, exactly like a curious cat. 

Jack, uncertain, gives his new neighbor a small nod, and feels relieved when he gets one back. 

He goes inside. 

 

___ 

 

Jack is a mainstay of Providence’s sleepy, close-knit magical community, has been since he first moved here, six or so years back. In some ways, it was inevitable, especially considering his lineage—the Zimmermanns don’t have a drop of magic in them, his father’s whole side as mundane as they come, but Alicia hails from a New England coven that predates the Revolutionary War. And everybody knows that, to witches, it’s the mother who matters. They’re famous, the Owens clan, and powerful enough that no one’s bothered challenging their territory for nearly two centuries now, a midsized coven with outsized strength.  

The Owens are girl-heavy, and Jack is the first boy born in three generations, second-eldest only to his second cousin Gabrielle. Gabby’s the acknowledged heir of their generation, the Novice to Aunt Amanda’s Witch and Great-Aunt Sarah’s Crone. Sylvia and Claire are the babies, and the four of them make a solid quartet, one more than the needed three to form a coven. Jack grew up as the voice of caution and reason, the solid, steady assistant who went and pulled the dusty spellbooks off the shelves, and squinted at spidery handwriting on old sheets of parchment, and tracked down the obscure ingredients needed for Sylvie or Claire’s flights of fancy. (Occasionally Gabby’s, too, but ‘fanciful’ wasn’t really the word to describe her, and, besides, she was the type to do her own research.)  

Someday Jack will be called home to Samwell to take his place as Gabby’s lefthand warlock, but for now he runs a quiet little spellbook store, his income generously supplemented by the potions-work he does on the side. The family doesn’t mind; Owens mages have a habit of traveling far afield or living elsewhere in their youth, Jack’s own mother being the perfect example. Though, Jack being Jack, after a year and a day spent wandering where the wind took him, he settled down in Providence, located barely a raven’s flight from home.  

It’s a good fit; the community is small, and doesn’t much stand on ceremony, and is fairly welcoming of the type of magic-worker whose gifts run toward the unusual. Jack, with his hunter’s blood and too-sharp senses (and the accompanying hyperawareness and resultant anxiety), barely stands out amongst the wilder, attention-grabbing half-fey or shifter crowd. He counts himself lucky that he can fade into the woodwork with a silent, contented sigh. 

But, despite being the behind-the-scenes bookworm that he is, it still falls to Jack Zimmermann, scion of the Owens clan, to be the one to welcome the new blood. 

So he finds himself on the doorstep of the house he still thinks of as Mrs. Heller’s place on a pleasant Tuesday evening, obligatory gift in hand—Bittle made it, thankfully, so he doesn’t have to worry about it being taken the wrong way. Jack can’t cook or craft with much skill, and showing up with nothing but a bottled potion is considered a bit…gauche, to say the least. But he made the potion, and Bittle baked it into the pie, and Chow paired it with a lovely wine he bartered from a West Coast coven, so all the bases are safely covered. 

Jack carefully pins a polite, unassuming smile onto his face, and rings the doorbell. 

Silence greets him for a tense minute, long enough that Jack is starting to formulate and discard several contingency plans—ring the doorbell again? Leave the pie here on the porch? But what if the raccoons find it?—when footsteps sound from inside the house. Jack has barely a second to relax in relief when the door is flung open, and he looks up to meet the eyes of the neighbor that Nurse’s dubbed ‘Tall, Dark, and Handsome.’ 

“Hey!” the guy says, sounding a little breathless. “Sorry, I was holed up in my office and didn’t hear the doorbell—Purrs had to come and get me—” 

At the word ‘Purrs,’ a dignified Maine Coone lets out a soft yowl, announcing his presence at one of his owners’ feet. Jack blinks, recognizing the look of a powerful familiar. 

“Hello,” Jack greets politely, and the cat yowls again in reply. “Thank you for announcing my presence.” 

When he looks back up, he finds his neighbor watching him with a wide, charming grin, and it takes all he has not to look down at the cat again, which seems—safer, somehow.  

“Oh,” his neighbor says, “Kent’s going to  _love_ you.” 

Jack tries and fails to fight off an answering blush. “Jack Zimmermann,” he says abruptly, shoving the hand not clutching the canvas bag of goodies forward, “of the Owens coven from Samwell, Massachusetts.” 

His neighbor ignores his awkwardness and stretches out his own to take it. “Justin Oluransi,” he answers, “from the Ufondu coven, out of the Toronto branch—but, well, I mostly answer to Ransom these days. It’s nice to meet you.” 

His warm hand closes over Jack’s, and someday Jack will have the courage and security to admit that it was over at that point, game, set, and match— 

From that point forward, a small part of him will always be waiting for the chance to touch Ransom again.  

 

___ 

 

Ransom asks him to stay for dinner, and Jack can’t think up a good enough reason to decline, so he ends up sitting at a wide mahogany kitchen table, eating a bowl of leftover restaurant mac’n’cheese.  

“Sorry,” Ransom says, apologetic, “I was gonna cook, but time got away from me. We could order in if you like—” 

“No, no,” Jack hastily reassures him, and they dig into their respective bowls. The conversation flows steadily thanks to Ransom’s easy-going, friendly demeanor, and by the time they’re breaking out Bittle’s pie, Jack has put his elbows up on the table, leaning forward to peer at the photo on Ransom’s phone, one of a small, fluffy gray cat. 

“And  _this_ sweetheart right here is from the shelter Kent volunteers at—”   

Jack makes an interested noise, and Ransom is about to launch into the story when the front door clatters open, and a voice calls out, “Babe! I’m home!” 

Jack’s heart lurches in his chest when he sees the way Ransom’s eyes automatically light up in response. Ransom’s phone is placed on the table, forgotten, and he gets up out of his chair to make his way to the doorway. A few seconds later, a familiar blond appears, coat slung over one arm and tossed carelessly aside as soon as Ransom is in reach, searching fingers hooked on the collar of Ransom’s shirt as he’s pulled down for a quick kiss. 

The blond—Kent, Jack remembers belatedly, Ransom’s boyfriend of four years—hums happily against his mouth, the sound content and oddly resonant. Jack blinks, surprised to feel the touch of magic pinging against his aura, but it’s definitely there— 

Ransom’s partner is a silvertongue, a charmer, the magical version of a smooth-talker if there ever was one, magic gracing his voice the way light gilds the horizon at sunrise. 

 _Oh,_ Jack thinks, surprised, and that’s all the time he has before Kent pulls away, laughing, only to stop mid-giggle when he catches sight of Jack, his eyes going wide. 

“Oh, shit, we have guests,” he says. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there at all—” 

Now it’s Ransom’s turn to start laughing, and Jack watches, fascinated, as Kent flushes to the dark roots of his hair and thumps a fist against his boyfriend’s chest. 

“You could’ve had the decency to tell me somebody was here, you asshole,” he says, dropping his voice so Jack won’t overhear. Which is pointless, but Kent doesn’t know that, so he bites his tongue and pretends he didn’t catch a thing. 

“You should’ve guessed from the shoes at the door,” Ransom counters at normal volume, still smiling. 

Kent wrinkles his nose at him, and Jack feels his heart thump a little. “There are, like, a million shoes out there,” Kent complains, still whispering. “How was I supposed to know one pair belonged to Hot Guy from Across the Street?”  

Jack, of course, chooses this opportune moment to choke on a piece of Bittle’s pie, and Ransom and Kent have to come over to thump his back, and that,  _that_ is how he first properly meets Kent Parson. 

Figures. 

 

___ 

 

“So, I hear Anakwe Ufondu’s kid moved to your town,” Claire tells him the next time he calls home. 

Jack pauses, uncertain. “Yes,” he says eventually. 

Claire makes an interested noise. “You know, he’s apparently the black sheep of the family,” she says. “Not disowned or anything, but just the odd one out. I mean, he comes from a line of weather witches and shamans going centuries back, and he ends up being a technomancer? Talk about unusual.” 

“I see,” Jack says, carefully neutral. Claire must sense his trepidation, because she switches topics to something safer, but her words linger in Jack’s mind. 

‘Odd one out’—Jack knows how that feels, has known it since he was four years old and frowning at the camera next to Gabby, wearing a dress that never fit him quite right, and wearing a name that never fit him quite right, either. Jack was lucky enough to be born to a coven that didn’t blink when he announced he’d rather be Jack than Jacqueline, but he knows not all families are so accepting, not even the magical ones. In their circles, power moves from mother to daughter, aunt to niece, woman to woman, and many old-blood covens wouldn’t have accepted what they would’ve seen as a daughter ‘trading in her birthright,’ willingly weakening her strength and the strength of her coven for inexplicable reasons, rather than seeing a son taking up a name that fit him like breathing. 

Jack thinks Ransom might understand that, just a little.  

(He wouldn’t find out just how right he was until much later.) 

 

___ 

 

The week after that first dinner at his neighbors’ house, Jack opens the door to find Ransom exiting his own door across the street, running shoes on his feet and a sleepy expression on his face as he leans down to scratch behind Purrs’ ears. He catches sight of Jack a moment later, and lifts his hand in a lazy wave. Jack nods back and then heads down the sidewalk, starting his daily morning jog around his neighborhood. 

When he gets back, stretching efficiently so his muscles cool down, Jack sees Ransom jogging down the street, coming from the opposite direction. He shouts out, “Morning, Jack!” and proceeds to go through his own stretches. 

Jack may or may not prolong his usual post-run cooldown just so he can watch, but it’s not like Ransom can know how long he usually stretches, so it’s not a big deal. 

Ransom doesn’t run every day, but he runs often enough that he becomes part of Jack’s weekly routine: Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday. Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday. Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday.  

Ransom will be there, saying good morning as Jack leaves, and Jack will arrive first and then spend a little longer waiting for Ransom to come home. 

 

___   

 

Kent doesn’t follow nearly so regular a routine, just shows up one day at Jack’s doorstep, asking if he could have some rosemary, their cuttings hadn’t quite forgiven him for transplanting them and kept retaliating by souring his spells. 

Jack hands him a few sprigs, Kent grins his thanks and claps him on the back, and then he’s crossing the street and heading back into his house, and Jack figures that will be that. 

Except that he keeps coming back, more like a needy neighborhood cat than his own familiar, always turning up at Jack’s door, asking for sun-dried salt for a ward he was drawing, or gifting Jack with a few pieces of quartz that he bought at a bargain, or borrowing a cup of brown sugar. 

“Would you need sugar for a scrying, though?” Jack asks, brows furrowing in confusion. That didn’t sound quite right. 

Kent laughs, the sound gentle instead of mocking, like Jack told the funniest joke he’d heard that week instead of putting his foot in his mouth yet again. “Nah, I just wanna make some chocolate chip cookies. Rans has been stressed, you know? His boss is being, quote-unquote—” and here Kent makes actual little air-quotes with his fingers “ —‘a little high-strung,’ which is Ransom-speak for being a fucking jerk.” 

“Oh,” Jack says, feeling sympathy but unsure of how to indicate that. 

Kent nods as if that one word was enough for him to understand. “Yeah. Figured I’d make him a little something to cheer him up, except that we’re down to one cup of brown sugar when I need at least two, and I don’t feel like driving to the Stop & Shop for just one thing, it’s the fucking worst, honestly.” Kent ends his diatribe with a grin that had widened with every word he spoke until it took up half his face, and Jack belatedly realizes it’s because  _he’s_ been laughing since the second word of his explanation. 

 _Oh,_ Jack thinks.  _I think I’m screwed._  

In the same way that there was a moment with Ransom where Jack had crossed the point of no return, there was this: 

Kent smiling at him on his front porch, and Jack thinking he wants to make him do that for the rest of his life. 

 

___ 

 

The problem, of course, is that that position’s already been taken, Ransom’s name on the lease next to Kent’s, Kent’s body next to Ransom’s in their bed, the both of them orbiting each other like binary stars. 

Jack doesn’t have a chance. Jack never had a chance. 

 

___  

 

In the coming months, Jack finds himself caught in their pull like the most doomed of exoplanets, destined to crash and burn under the force of its twin suns. It’s unavoidable, in Jack’s opinion—both Ransom and Kent are equally sociable and relentlessly friendly, though in distinctly different ways.  

Ransom’s outgoing nature manifests itself as a tendency to be loud and gregarious, building a rapport with the people around him and ratcheting the collective energy up until the whole group’s laughing, Ransom in the center with a shit-eating grin on his face and his arm affectionately slung around the shoulders of his nearest friend.  

Kent’s extroverted in a more intimate way that Jack can’t quite explain, easing his way into conversations and being so charming that Jack’s caught more than a few members of their community blinking in surprise at how much they’ve revealed about themselves. Kent’s friendliness is inexorable, more like the way a river weaves itself into every nook and cranny of a house during a flash flood, water rising so quickly that you’re neck-deep before you even realize it. 

Between the two of them, Jack’s social life is far busier than it has any right to be.  

He’s roped into their monthly parties, made up of an eclectic mix of their friends and the members of the local magic community. Jack stands to the side, watching Bittle swapping recipes and flirting with Holster, Ransom’s best friend, or George teaming up with Kent’s co-worker Scrappy in the table tennis tournament, or Ford talking excitedly about film with Lardo, Ransom’s old roommate, and Carrie, Kent’s younger sister. Inevitably, Kent or Ransom will appear at Jack’s elbow and nudge him into the center of the party, pulling him in from the outskirts.  

“Is it just me, or have I heard Jack say more in the last three months than I have in the last three years?” he overhears Nurse ask Shitty once. 

And, well, he’s not exactly  _wrong._ Jack _is_ talking more—Kent and Ransom make it so easy to say what he’s thinking, their eyes glinting in amusement whenever they catch one of his deadpan jokes, the little furl of anxiety in his chest easing when they take his silences or his gruff answers or even his rambling about hockey or photography or history in stride. They invite him for dinner over all the time, so much so that Jack has permanently blocked off Tuesday nights just for them.  

(If they’d wanted, he’d block off every night, just for them.) 

It’s a routine, comforting and familiar, and Jack settles into it like a man coming home after a long, long journey back. 

 

___  

 

Ransom finds out that Jack does his bookkeeping in, well,  _books,_ and nearly has a heart attack. 

“Excel,” he says with the fervency of a man worshipping at the altar of his god, “Jack, you need to use Excel.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with good old-fashioned ledgers,” Jack protests, only to be met with Kent’s snorting laughter. This time, Jack has no doubt he’s laughing  _at_ him, and flicks his fingers against his forehead, Kent rearing back to dodge him, his earrings swinging with the motion. 

“Give it up, Jack,” Kent says easily. “Rans loves Excel—it’s how he does his divination, you know.” 

Jack’s eyebrows raise in faint surprise. Usually you needed crystals or water to divine with any accuracy, some sort of conduit being a necessity; he didn’t see how Ransom could use a  _computer program_ to achieve the same effect. “Eh—”  

“It’s the silicon,” Ransom answers, reading his question in his face. “Works just as well as traditional quartz, weirdly enough.” 

 _“If_ you’ve got the skills,” Kent counters. “Which my honey-bear does, of course.” 

“Kenny,” Ransom says, clearly embarrassed, but just as clearly pleased, too. He shoots a look at Jack. “Anyway, I can set you up with a pretty good system here, teach you how to use it.”  

Jack hesitates, loath to impose, but it’s that last phrase that decides him: 

Spending more time with either Ransom or Kent is always going to be a priority for him. 

“Sure,” Jack says, making sure to sigh like he’s being put upon, even if he’s happy enough to do a jig, “if you really think it would help.” 

“It will,” Ransom reassures him, while Kent just quips, “We’re going to drag you kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century if it kills you, you Luddite.” 

“Watch—you really  _will_ kill me one of these days,” Jack shoots back, “and then I’ll come back and haunt you.” 

Ransom shudders while Kent cackles. “Ugh, no haunting!” Ransom laments. “Did you know in college, I roomed in a fucking haunted attic—I am  _not_ going through that again.”  

“But, babe, it’d be Zimms,” Kent points out, using the nickname he’d bestowed on Jack during one of their many house-parties. “He’d be a nice ghost.” 

“Nuh-uh, I do not care,” Ransom says, shaking his head. “If you haunt me, I am exorcising you, nice or not.” He levels a stern finger at Jack. “Promise me you won’t do that.” 

“I promise,” Jack says, resisting the urge to cross his fingers. Staying with Ransom and Kent at all hours held a certain appeal for him, but he suspected the continuing inability to touch either of them would drive him mad before long. He had no desire to spend the afterlife continuing to quietly pine. 

 

___  

 

Kent wears make-up sometimes, subtle but pointedly there. He pulls on tights and short shorts, matches them with crop tops and dangling earrings. He looks good, and Jack catches himself staring a little longer on those days, and catches Ransom staring, too, not that he blames him. 

“Looking good, sweetheart,” Ransom will say, and Kent will beam at him, and Jack will avert his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on some great intimacy with the way they’re staring at each other. 

(This is, of course, how he misses them looking back at him.) 

Ransom’s style is similar to Kent’s regular, the two of them usually looking like the former frat bros they apparently are. Ransom favors muscle tanks and board shorts, owning a particularly egregious pair in salmon pink that Bittle’s threatened to burn and Shitty’s threatened to steal. His most common accessories are snapbacks and sunglasses, trading them with Kent like they’re mix-and-match flip books. When he’s not dressed down, Ransom can most often be found in button-downs and slacks, the occasional suit finding its way onto his broad frame on the rare days the tech company he works for holds formal meetings. 

Still, though Jack would never admit it, his favorite outfit of Ransom’s consists of a form-fitting white t-shirt paired with the clingiest black running shorts Jack’s ever seen. That’s the outfit he’s wearing the first time he asks to join Jack on his morning run, and that outfit is the reason Jack’s distracted enough to say yes like an idiot. 

So now Jack is stuck dying from unrequited lust every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday. 

Great. Just great. 

 

___ 

 

Jack comes over one day, not on a Tuesday, just on a Saturday where he found a jigsaw puzzle he thought Ransom would like. He knocks on the door, bouncing on his feet a little in excitement. 

“Hi,” he says when Kent opens up, then stops. 

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent says back, a smile on his face, but his eyes are all wrong, pinched in a way Jack hasn’t seen before. He looks at Jack like he’s looking through him, past him, like he’s not even there. The house feels wrong, too, looks shadowy and strange and almost melancholy, like the sun isn’t quite reaching it fully. “I’m feeling a little under the weather, so—” 

“Oh,” Jack says. “Sorry to hear that, bud.” 

Kent barks a rough laugh. “Yeah, thanks.” They stand there for another second or two, Kent resolutely keeping the door close to his body, and Jack’s heart sinks to his feet.  

He doesn’t want him here. Which—that makes sense, yes, there’s no need to deal with his nosy neighbor when he’s feeling ill, so Jack needs to leave.  

Jack takes a jerky step back, fully intending to follow through on his realization, but the cheap plastic bag in his hand knocks against his leg, and he’s reminded that he brought something over for Ransom. 

“Ah,” he says, floundering in the sudden absence of Kent’s usual reassuring warmth, but pressing on despite the distance he can read in Kent’s stiff shoulders and tense jaw, “I saw this at the flea market and thought Ransom would like it. Would you—do you—I can just leave it here for him to look at, later.” 

At Ransom’s name, Kent’s eyes darken momentarily, and there’s a flash in his aura that he can’t quite mask; Jack knows him too well now. “Thanks,” Kent says, short, and reaches out for the bag. 

Before their fingers can brush, a familiar voice calls out: “Kenny?” 

Kent’s expression flickers before smoothing out. “I’ll be right there, babe,” he calls out. “Just letting Purrs out.” 

 _Don’t say anything,_ his eyes warn Jack, and Jack swallows, discomfited.  

The reason for the tension around the house becomes abundantly clear when Ransom appears in the entryway, a barely visible shadow glimpsed through the smoked glass inlaid in the front door. “Kenny—” Ransom says again, then stops. He must’ve seen Jack. 

“Hey, man,” Ransom says, confirming Jack’s assumption, and the door is nudged open, pushed out of Kent’s near white-knuckled grasp. Ransom appears behind Kent, a bundle of dark cloth in his hand that Jack recognizes as the afghan usually found on their living room couch. Ransom’s got a smile on his face, too, but if anything it looks worse than Kent’s, doing little to distract from the dark bags under his eyes, the heavy four o’clock shadow on his normally cleanshaven face, the way he’s standing so straight and still. “Come on in—we were just about to make dinner.” 

 _“We_  were just about to order in, you mean,” Kent interrupts, angling his body so he’s shielding Ransom from the rest of the world—so he’s shielding him from Jack. 

Ransom shakes his head, and there’s something so infinitely exhausted about the gesture. “Nah, babe, we can’t let the meat go bad. It’d be a waste.” 

Kent’s lips thin before he opens his mouth, and Jack barely manages to suppress a shiver at the sound of his voice, laced heavy with magic:  

“It wouldn’t be a waste,” he says firmly, and Jack finds himself nodding along in fervent agreement. 

Ransom just frowns, though. “Don’t do that,” he says slowly. “You don’t—you don’t have to do that.” His eyes meet Jack’s briefly before dipping back down to land on Kent’s hand, still stubbornly holding onto the doorknob. He touches Kent’s wrist, the height of gentle, and Kent’s grip finally breaks free. “Come on,” he says to Jack, turning around and walking into the house. “You know you’re always welcome at our place.” 

Jack doesn’t think that’s true at the moment, watching the way Ransom’s moving, deliberately smooth and graceful, a performance so perfect that Jack would be fooled if it weren’t for the herculean sense of strain in the air, as if Ransom were pulling all his parts together piece by piece, puppet and puppet master all at once. He steps into the house regardless; one doesn’t turn down an invitation without incurring a debt.

He doesn’t plan to stay long, however. 

“Thanks,” Jack says carefully. “I just came to drop this off, though.” He pulls the puzzle out of the bag, places it on the small table in the foyer usually covered with Kent’s knickknacks, collected from his wanderings around Providence. It’s cleared off at the moment, another sign of the wrongness in the house. Jack hovers in the entryway, uncertain of how to extract himself, and catches sight of the living room, stacks of papers and sticky notes and books all laid out in exacting rows, a madness to the order that sets off Jack’s unease.  

Ransom turns to face him, frowning. “You don’t want to stay?” he asks. 

Jack wavers; he always wants to stay, it’s just that he’s certain he shouldn’t right now. Kent’s presence is a prickling sharpness at his back, his aura practically screaming  _leave leave leave_ in a way Jack’s never felt from him before. “I have to call home,” Jack lies. “They’re expecting me.” 

Ransom nods, accepting the answer. “Coven stuff. Yeah, that makes sense. Do you need to go soon?” 

“Yes. Very soon,” Jack says, crossing his fingers in his pocket. Kent’s aura relaxes behind him, and something in Ransom eases, too. “I’m sorry to have imposed.” 

“You didn’t,” Kent assures him. “We’re always glad to see you.” 

Jack hums noncommittally. That’s obviously not true, but he’s grateful Kent bothers to lie to him. “Yeah, well, I’ll—just get going now.” He takes a step back towards the door, but Ransom takes a step forward in the same moment, and Jack freezes. 

Ransom takes a few more steps, until he’s tugging Jack in for a goodbye hug like he usually does, except instead of the usual warmth and affection inherent in the action, Jack feels both a heaviness and a fragility suffusing him as Ransom’s aura bleeds into his, surely an accident if the way Kent sucks in a breath is any indication. 

“Shit,” Ransom hisses, starting to pull back. “Sorry—” 

Jack stops him by placing his hand in the small of his back and pulling him in. Ransom shudders for a second before collapsing into him, tucking his face against Jack’s shoulder as Jack rubs his back in soothing, even motions. 

“Bad day?” Jack asks, gentle. 

Ransom nods against his shoulder. 

“I get that,” Jack says. “Sometimes shit’s hard.” 

Both Ransom and Kent laugh at that, and Kent eases past them to press himself to Ransom’s back, so that he and Jack have Ransom safely between them. They stay that way for a while. 

“I don’t know, man,” Ransom says eventually. “I’m just really depressed right now.” 

He says it half-jokingly, but Jack can tell it’s more serious than he’s letting on. Kent’s behavior from earlier makes more sense now—of course he wanted Jack safely gone, if the way Ransom had forced himself to act like he was normal was any indication of how he would act if there were outsiders around. Jack’s heart squeezes painfully. 

“That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to push yourself.” 

“That’s what I was saying,” Kent says, and Ransom lets out a long sigh. 

“Sorry,” Ransom says, and both Jack and Kent make a disgruntled noise in response. Ransom chuckles again weakly before subsiding for a moment. He says, hesitant, “It’s just—we had plans today. And you came over, so—” 

“It wasn’t anything important,” Jack reassures him at the same time Kent says, “We can always do that stuff later, baby.”   

Ransom just sighs again. “Is it terrible of me if I just wanna go lie down on the couch and sleep for a hundred years?” 

“Nah,” Kent answers. “I’ll wake you up with a kiss, like Sleeping Beauty.” 

Ransom nods against Jack’s shoulder, and Kent eases him out of their embrace and carefully guides him to the living room, settling him on the couch and wrapping the blanket he was holding earlier around him. Kent places a tender kiss to the top of Ransom’s head after, murmurs a quick  _love you_ as Ransom closes his eyes and falls into sleep. 

Right after that, Kent jerks his head towards the kitchen, and Jack follows him.  

“Sorry,” Kent says, voice kept deliberately low. “I didn’t mean to be such a douchebag earlier. It’s just—it was a bad time, you know?” He sighs, running a tired hand over his face. 

“It’s fine,” Jack says, awkward. “I, um—I have bad days, too.” 

Kent shoots him a sharp glance. “Yeah?” 

Jack nods. “Yeah. I, um, have an anxiety disorder,” he admits. 

Kent reaches out a hand to touch him, but seems to think better of it and starts to pull back. Jack, for once, doesn’t second-guess himself, and stretches out and grasps his hand, squeezing it tight. They stand there like that for a long minute, before Kent quietly says, “Thank you for telling me that.” 

Jack shrugs. “It’s nothing.” 

“It’s something to me,” Kent insists, and Jack wishes desperately that he could kiss him. 

But Ransom’s sleeping in the next room over, and Jack won’t do anything to hurt him, so he clears his throat and drops Kent’s hand. 

“So,” Jack says instead, “dinner?” 

Kent lets him change the subject, thankfully, and they spend the next hour cooking Ransom’s favorite foods. 

 _It’s fine,_ Jack tells himself.  _We’re good._  

And they are. 

 

___  

 

Bad days are sadly common for Ransom during the long winter months, but they ease up in spring when the days start lengthening again. Jack’s glad for the change; though he counts himself lucky that Kent and Ransom trust him enough to rely on him during a depressive episode, he knows that they still feel a little uncomfortable imposing on him, no many how many times he’s said that it’s fine. 

Still, they have a chance to repay the favor, not that it honestly needs repaying, but they’re all warlocks, and Jack knows the power of debts and things owed amongst their kind. If they want to repay him, they can, especially as his anxiety starts acting up again and throwing his spells awry. 

Strangely enough, Jack’s found that infusing just a little bit of his fear into his potions tempers them to just the perfect amount of sharpness and strength. Too much, however, and his potions go acrid, batch after batch ruined when Jack is compelled to keep brewing them, fruitlessly convinced that  _this_ will be the time he gets the balance back. 

Lately, though, Kent and Ransom have developed a habit of checking in on him right when it begins to be too much, coaxing him out of his stillroom to go and accompany them on errands, or spend time with them at their house, or even just to sit and rest for a bit.  

“Just sleep, sweetheart,” Ransom says to him once, though Jack was half-asleep and might honestly have just dreamed up the endearment. Jack can hear Kent moving around the room, closing the blinds, arranging Jack’s things the way he likes. He tries to say thank you, but Ransom shushes him with a soothing murmur. “Don’t worry, honey—we’re here; we’ll keep you safe.” 

So Jack follows Ransom’s directions and tumbles into dreamless sleep, lulled into a sense of security by their combined steady presence, auras enveloping him like a warm cocoon of affection. 

 

___  

 

When summer comes along, Jack crosses the street to find Ransom mowing their back lawn, shirtless under the sweltering June sun. He stops at the fence, surprised, his eyes catching on the familiar scars on Ransom’s chest. 

“You’re trans?” Jack blurts out. 

Kent, having just come out from the house, hears him and frowns. “You have a problem with that?” he asks, belligerent. 

Ransom, however, waves him off and merely nods. “Yeah,” he admits, “I am.  _Do_ you have a problem with it?” 

Jack shakes his head fervently. “No, not at all! I mean—I’m—I—oh, God, just give me a second—” 

And he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a set of scars that match Ransom’s own.    

“Me, too,” Jack says, smiling, bubbly with happiness, and it’s Ransom and Kent’s turn to blink.  

“Whoa, really?” Kent says, face breaking out into a sunny grin. “That’s awesome, man.” 

Jack blushes, looking at his feet. “Ah, thank you,” he says, and then Ransom is there, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him in for a hug. Jack goes willingly, butterflies in his stomach all the while. 

“So that makes three of us,” Ransom says, and Jack swings his head to stare at Kent. 

“You, too?” he asks. 

Kent frowns at Ransom. “I don’t really count, Rans,” he says. 

Ransom rolls his eyes, clearly having heard this argument before and just as clearly holding no water with it. “You totally count, babe.” 

“But I’m a guy, like, eighty percent of the time,” Kent protests. 

“I hate to break it to you, babe, but ‘only eighty percent cis’ translates to ‘really fucking trans.’ Them’s the rules—you just have to accept it,” Ransom says sagely, and Jack laughs at the ‘wise old hermit’ face he’s trying to pull. 

Jack glances back at Kent, finding him disgruntled but accepting. “So you’re…?” 

“Oh, I’m genderfluid,” Kent answers. “Again, I’m mostly a guy, but sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I’m a girl—” 

“A hot one,” Ransom interjects. “Like, really hot.”   

“ —thanks, babe—and sometimes I’m not either, and sometimes my consciousness apparently doesn’t give a fuck.” 

“Oh,” Jack says, processing this new information. Then something occurs to him, and he frowns. “Wait, have I been misgendering you this whole time?” 

Kent shakes his head, waving a hand. “Nah, dude, you’re good. Like I said, I’m mostly a guy, and when we’ve met when I wasn’t, I didn’t care about pronouns. I’ll let you know when I’m having a girl day—that's about the only time it matters, and those don’t happen often, unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?” Jack repeats. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, brightening. “My magic’s actually stronger when I’m a chick; it’s pretty cool. I didn’t think it would make a difference, but it does, weirdly enough.” 

“Go figure,” Ransom says dryly. “All those old-school covens actually had a point.” 

Kent makes a face. “Ugh, please, I still hate your Uncle Ifeanyi. Where does he get off saying you were stronger as a girl? You were  _never_ a girl—ergo, your magic couldn’t have been stronger.”   

“Sadly, he’s immune to logic,” Ransom tells Jack, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a wry grin. Jack squeezes his waist in sympathy. 

“Whatever. His loss, babe,” Kent declares, and Ransom’s grin widens into its usual blindingly bright configuration. 

“Right? Can’t believe he’s missing out on all this awesome,” Ransom says, and Jack and Kent both say, “You  _are_ awesome,” at the same time, making Ransom laugh, his joy reverberating all through Jack’s body where they’re pressed together, side to side. 

 _I could do this for the rest of my life,_ he thinks, content. 

It’s a good day.  

 

___ 

 

Jack starts asking Kent what their pronouns are every day, and most of the time he answers ‘he/his,’ but occasionally it’s ‘they/them.’ Ransom bought Kent a pin that indicated preferred pronouns a few years back, and Kent starts wearing it more often, moving the dial as needed. 

The first time Jack ever sees it turned to ‘she,’ he acutely understands what Ransom meant when he said  _‘really_ hot.’ 

“Oh, hey,” Kent says when she opens the door, “you’re early today.” 

“Um,” Jack says, trying not to stare and aware that he’s failing miserably. “Hi.” 

Kent grins, wolfish, and lets him into the house. She’s wearing a glamour, the edges of it so seamless and tailored that Jack wouldn’t have realized it was there if not for the fact that it  _has_ to be there. It doesn’t change her appearance much—Kent’s still the same height, still has the same short-cropped blond curls, but there’s a subtle curve to her hips, a gentle narrowing at her waist, a precise rearrangement of her facial features that turns her from a handsome man into a handsome woman. She’s decidedly masculine, wearing the same backwards snapback and plaid shirt she usually does, her lean, rangy body moving with the same grace and assertiveness, and Jack is hopelessly riveted. 

Fun fact: Jack has always been disproportionately attracted to butch women, though he never acted on said attraction, being very aware that most women who dressed that way were unlikely to date men, and, Jack being Jack, he always erred on the side of caution and left well enough alone.  

Still, the appeal is there, and Jack is suddenly reminded of it when confronted with the living, breathing reality of Kent as a woman. 

“What’s the matter, boo? Cat got your tongue?” she teases, and Jack blurts out, “Ransom was right.” 

Kent’s brows lift in faint surprise. “Wait, what?” she asks.  

Jack blushes. “Ransom was right,” he repeats. “You  _are,_ um—well. You know. Very pretty.” 

Kent’s mouth curves into a pleased grin. “I’m pretty sure he said I was hot, not pretty.” 

Jack winces. “You’re, uh, both?” he tries, and Kent laughs and lets it slide, declining to tease him over his inability to directly admit her attractiveness. 

“Come on,” she says, “I’ve got some potions I want to whip up today, and I might as well take advantage of the best potions master in the whole of New England.” 

Jack follows her, mildly dazed, and obliges. 

 

___ 

 

“Ransom,” he says that night at dinner, then stops, unable to articulate further. 

Ransom just nods in understanding. “Dude, I  _know,_ right?” he says. “Like I said—she’s super fucking hot.” 

Jack doesn’t disagree. 

 

___  

 

Jack housesits for them in October; Ransom and Kent are in Toronto for a week to celebrate Thanksgiving with Ransom’s family. 

Kent seemed unusually stressed before the trip. Through their restless chatter, Jack gathered that despite being Ransom’s partner for nearly five years at this point, they were still bothered by the gap between their respective coven standings. 

“I mean, the Parsons are nobodies,” Kent says, chewing anxiously at their necklace. “Hell, we weren’t even a proper coven until Ransom joined—it was just me and my sister, and you can’t have a coven with just two fucking people. My mom doesn’t have a lick of magic, which means we probably got it from my dad’s side of the family. And who inherits magic from their  _dad?_ That’s just plain weird.” 

“It’s unusual,” Jack concedes from his perch on the bed, surrounded by clothes and toiletries, “but I don’t think it’s a negative thing, Kenny.” 

Kent just shrugs, glaring balefully at their half-packed suitcase. “I don’t even know why he’s with me sometimes,” they mutter. “People were literally fighting to court him as soon as he turned sixteen, did you know that? He’s powerful, well-connected—he could do so much better than a college drop-out with ADHD, you know?” 

“I don’t think Ransom would agree,” Jack says diplomatically.  

Kent’s mouth twists. “Well, what would you know?” they say, petulant. “You’re a fucking Owens, you’re just as old-blood as he is.  _You_ wouldn’t have to worry about anything if Ransom took _you_ home.” 

Jack blinks, unsure of how to take that. “But he’s not taking me home,” he points out reasonably. “He’s taking  _you._ He chose _you._ He doesn’t want anybody else, Kent, and if you think he could possibly do better, you’re dumber than you look.” Jack pauses. “Which might be a problem, considering you look plenty dumb.” 

Kent snorts, startled into laughter. “Jerk,” they say affectionately, shoulders losing some of the tension they’ve been carrying. 

“Takes one to know one,” Jack counters, and rubs their head soothingly when they tip forward onto the bed with a groan. 

“His uncles all hate me,” Kent complains. 

“Maybe, but he hates them, too, so isn’t that actually a point in your favor?” 

“His obnoxious cousin Mark is gonna be there.” 

“So will his awesome sisters.” 

“His mom keeps asking him when I’m gonna make an honest man out of him.” 

“Tell her that you flipped a coin for it, and Ransom is the one who has to propose.” 

Kent snorts again, then flops onto their back with a sigh. “I just wanna make him proud of me,” they admit in a small voice, glancing up at Jack with vulnerable eyes. 

Jack smoothes their cowlick down and tells them the truth: “You already do.” 

 

___  

 

The actual act of housesitting goes surprisingly well, considering that Jack spends the whole week moping with Purrs. 

“They’ll be back soon,” he tells him each night. “There’s nothing to be sad over.” 

Purrs shoots him a venomous glance and takes a swipe at his ankles in obvious disagreement before darting out of the room. 

“Yeah, well, I miss them, too, and you don’t see  _me_ mauling anybody over it,” Jack calls after him. 

Reduced to sniping at a cat. Oh, how the depths of love have laid him low. 

(Jack wouldn’t have it any other way.) 

 

___ 

 

Ransom and Kent are a little weird when they get back from their trip, shooting him looks and holding whispered conversations that stop whenever Jack gets within earshot. Within  _Jack’s_ earshot, even, which is a further boundary than most. 

“Okay, what’s up with you two?” Jack asks one Tuesday dinner, exasperated. He’s had about enough of the odd tension that fills the room whenever he enters it; he wants things to go back to the way they were, the way things  _should_ be. 

Kent and Ransom exchange a glance and grimace.  

“Out with it,” Jack prods, crossing his arms. “You’ve been acting weird for about two weeks now, I  _know_ something’s up. What is it?” 

Kent frowns. “I say we should just fuck it and tell him,” he says, addressing Ransom. 

“Holster said that might be a bad idea,” Ransom says, clarifying absolutely nothing for Jack. 

Kent snorts. “Since when is  _Holster_ the expert on romance?” he says, sardonic. “He can’t even ask Bitty out, and the poor guy’s been dropping hints for months.” 

“Are we really in any position to be judging him for that?” Ransom says. 

Kent’s mouth opens and shuts. “Point,” he eventually admits, begrudging. “But in our defense, the hints  _we_ were dropped were incredibly vague and easy to misinterpret, considering that it just looked like normal behavior from him, and we never saw him act differently around us. How were we supposed to know we were getting hit on?” 

“Uh, what?” Jack asks, his veins turning to ice all at once. They couldn’t have figured out his feelings, have they? 

Kent looks at him and bites his lip. “Fuck this, I’m telling him,” he says to Ransom, then turns to Jack and proceeds to blow his mind by saying, “So Ransom’s mom apparently heard that the Owens’ coven’s only son was courting two warlocks here in Providence, and she wanted to know if that was us.” 

Jack chokes on thin air. “Oh, my God,” he says, equal parts mortified and enraged, “I’m going to  _kill_ my cousins.” 

Ransom lets out a whoosh of air. “So it’s true?” he asks, strangely intent. “You’re courting  _us?”_  

Jack trains his eyes on the floor. “Uh. No?” he tries, knowing he sounds completely unconvincing and unable to do anything about it. 

“Holy shit,” Kent says, not fooled in the slightest, “it’s true. It’s us! We’re the motherfuckers from the rumor.” He smacks Ransom’s shoulder. “See! I told you you were being jealous of nothing. ‘Some other warlocks,’ my ass—who the fuck else would he be courting?” 

Ransom shoots him an annoyed glance before turning to Jack. “So, just to be clear, you like us, right?” 

Jack grimaces. “No,” he says truthfully. 

Kent and Ransom’s faces immediately fall. “Oh,” they say simultaneously. 

Jack fiddles with his jacket zipper, suddenly fascinated with the carpet. “‘Like’ is kind of a weak word for it,” he admits. 

Silence for a beat. Then, “Oh, my God, you  _would_ admit you love us in the most roundabout way ever, Jesus fucking Christ,” Kent decrees. 

Jack scrunches his nose, about to protest, but suddenly Kent’s right there, plopping himself down in Jack’s lap, tilting his chin up, and laying one hell of a kiss on him. 

“Uh, what,” Jack says after, dazed.  

Kent grins down at him and laughs. “Your  _face!_ God, we should’ve done this ages ago.” He looks over his shoulder. “Rans,” he says, “c’mere.” 

Ransom obliges, sitting right next to Jack and resting one hand on the small of Kent’s back, helping him to stay balanced. “So,” he says to Jack, “can I kiss you? 'Cause I’ve been pining for  _months,_ man, ever since you said hello to the damn cat, and I would really, really, really love it if you—” 

Jack leans over and kisses him. 

Kent laughs again, delighted. “Best way to shut him up,” he says smugly. “Knew you’d catch on quick, baby.” 

“Um,” Jack says, heart thumping from a combination of the kisses and the way Kent is apparently calling him endearments now, “so this means what I think it means, right?” 

“If you think it means we want you to be our boyfriend, then, yes, yes, it does,” Ransom says. 

“Thank God,” Jack says fervently, then proceeds to make out with them both for the rest of the afternoon. 

 

___ 

 

“Ha!” Shitty says the next time Jack sees him. “Called it! Pay up, you losers!” 

Shitty holds out a hand, and Swoops, Holster, and the rest of their assorted friends smack varying amounts of money onto his palm. 

“I cannot  _believe_ you fuckers took bets on us and didn’t let me in on it,” Kent complains from where he’s plastered to Jack’s side. 

“To be fair, babe, you knowing would’ve given you an unfair advantage,” Ransom points out from his place at Jack’s other side. 

“But  _I_ wanted to make a ridiculous bet about our love lives,” Kent whines. 

“Well, nothing’s stopping you now,” Bitty says, smirking. 

“But what can I bet on? When we’ll break up? That’s just depressing,” Kent says. 

Jack snorts. “I can tell you the answer to that one, Kenny,” he says, exchanging a fond glance with Ransom.  

Ransom grins, hooking his chin over Jack’s shoulder. “It’ll be never,” he states confidently. “Sorry, Jack, but you’re stuck with us now.” 

Jack wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 

___ 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, look, I actually managed to write a fic under 10k. Go, me! :D
> 
> On a more serious note, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Feel free to leave comments, kudos, etc., but please also remember to like or reblog the [original art](https://abominableobriens.tumblr.com/post/185294440557/a-pinch-of-magic-fic-by-halfdesertedstreets-jack) if you liked this story. And check out the other great works from [OMGCP Reversebang 2019](https://omgcpreversebang.tumblr.com/)! I promise you won't be disappointed. ^^
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, and I hope you have a wonderful day. <3


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